So Here We Are
by LilyBaggins
Summary: Slash FrodoAragorn. MPREG Warning. A series of vignettes. In Minas Tirith just after the quest, Frodo bears Aragorn's child.
1. The Conversation

Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Note: Part of an ongoing series of vignettes set in Minas Tirith post-quest.   
  
****  
  
The sweet sound of birdsong emanating from the trees of Ithilien, plus Sam's gentle snoring nearby, was suddenly interrupted by the rustling of leather and a rough-sounding, low voice at Frodo's pointed ear.   
  
"Frodo, we must talk."  
  
Comfortably ensconced in a comfortable bed within one of the largest tents, the hobbit gazed down at his hands, examining his grimy bitten nails---all nine of them---before directing his eyes toward the swollen contours of his midsection. Ah, yes, it was definitely noticeable, and Frodo supposed it was inevitable that this conversation must eventually come. Among other things, he thought wryly.   
  
"Frodo," Aragorn repeated, his voice more gentle now as he settled next to Frodo on a low stool, "when we rescued you from Mt. Doom, we did not expect to find this." He reached out a hand to lightly rub Frodo's belly, and the hobbit had to fight to keep from squirming. Aragorn's touch might stir up strong feelings again . . . and some way or other, Frodo had to let him go. "There were certainly no indications of your condition when we parted at Amon Hen."  
  
"You just didn't ever notice," Frodo said crossly, "because I wore my jacket all the time and suffered all my morning sickness in Rivendell while you were off with Elladan and Elrohir. And it just sort of . . . became noticeable the past month."  
  
"I am sorry I was remiss in picking up on such things, but I had many responsibilities. And you . . . you should definitely not have undertaken the quest in such a state. I take it this happened in Rivendell . . . have you an idea of when the child is due?"  
  
Frodo glared at him, unable to keep from feeling a little cranky and tired. "Don't ask me! The carrying time for hobbits apparently doesn't last the same amount of time as humans,' from what Lord Elrond told me. And since this child is a halfbreed . . . only the Valar know when it will come. As for the quest . . . well, I could hardly announce to all of Rivendell that I was with child, now, could I?"  
  
"So, you did tell Elrond. You might have told me, at least. We could have made preparations . . ."   
  
Folding his arms, Frodo leveled his best no-nonsense stare at the man. "Lord Elrond is too canny and figured it out on his own . . . but I didn't tell him who the baby's father was. And . . . you owe me nothing, you know . . . I plan on going back to the Shire when I'm well enough and having the baby there. I've still the house at Crickhollow and plenty of relatives who will be overjoyed at the prospect of a little one underfoot."  
  
Aragorn's eyes turned dark with concern, and perhaps, a bit of anger. "You'll do no such thing, Frodo, not if I have any say. This child should never even have survived the quest . . . he or she is a blessing."  
  
"I cannot interfere with your duties to your kingdom."   
  
"My utmost duty has always been to protect you and that which you carry, whatever it be. You know that."  
  
Unable to help himself, Frodo felt tears forming in his eyes at Aragorn's words and muttered an oath. How dare he feel so vulnerable and divided and scared . . . and he didn't know what to do about it.   
  
Embarrassed, Frodo turned over onto his side and curled up, his back to Aragorn, and pulled the covers up to his chin to hide all evidence of the subject of their conversation. He felt far less vulnerable when he couldn't see his pregnant state, for some strange reason, though he felt the child's movements regularly.   
  
"Please, Frodo, do not shut me out of this." A strong hand caressed his brow, and then Aragorn sighed. "But sleep now. You are exhausted, but we shall discuss this again when you are feeling better." He made it not a plea, but an unalterable statement of fact, and Frodo knew he wouldn't give up until he'd gotten what he wanted. Whatever, the hobbit reflected dully, that happened to be.   
  
Through the sound of fading footsteps Frodo knew that Aragorn had left, and he closed his eyes tightly and let the tears flow.   
  
****  
  
. 


	2. A OneandaHalf Hobbit Walking Party

Disclaimer: Don't own it, couldn't make money off it if I wanted to.   
  
Warnings: Slash, MPREG  
  
****  
  
Frodo had finally managed to escape from under his companions' watchful eyes---and that was quite a significant thing, for they always seemed to somehow know Frodo's exact whereabouts---an uncanny knack the hobbit remembered his mother possessing. Especially when a certain youngster tried to steal freshly baked apple pies.   
  
But to avoid any cases of panic, Frodo had left a note at the house informing Sam and Gandalf of his short trip out to the market. For although Aragorn very much wanted Frodo to live in the Tower with him, Frodo felt less conspicuous in the house and insisted on staying there for now.   
  
Oh, was he ever craving the thick fried cheese on a stick to be gotten at the market! And also that lovely spun-sugar candy . . . as well as any other assorted "bad" foods he definitely wasn't supposed to be eating. There was no harm in having them once in a while, though, was there?  
  
Of course not. Unless search parties found him . . . and he would certainly be easy to find, Frodo noted wryly. There was only one hobbit in all of Minas Tirith with nine fingers and a belly large with child.   
  
Oh yes, he would be all too easy to find. He'd better walk faster.   
  
***  
  
Rubbing his now extra-large, packed-full belly full of fried cheese and spun sugar and carrying a sack of goodies to munch on later, Frodo found he wished he'd ridden a pony. Walking was good for him, Aragorn had said, as long as he didn't overdo or exhaust himself. But now, he was so tired, and though he couldn't actually *see* his ankles, he could feel them swelling . . . funny how he tired so easily nowadays, especially with the hot sun beating down on his head.   
  
Nevertheless, the market had been quite fun and entertaining—as long as he ignored the calls from fortune-tellers trying to coerce him to their booths so they could wrest gold coins from him to determine if his child was a girl or a boy.  
  
Old Lady Helgotha had claimed it was a boy.   
  
But Olithir the Great was determined that Frodo was going to bear a maid-child.   
  
So caught up was Frodo in his thoughts that he failed to notice when he nearly ran head-on into one of the Big Folk coming toward him.   
  
"Frodo! Easy there, have a care for yourself!" Strong hands steadied him and Frodo found himself looking up into Captain Faramir's kind face.   
  
The hobbit was abashed . . . he felt like such a clumsy oaf. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Captain Faramir . . . I'm not too light on my feet and find myself tripping into nearly everything nowadays." He smiled apologetically.   
  
His face crinkled with worry, the man knelt down to Frodo's level. "You look tired, Frodo. I imagine Aragorn would have a conniption fit if he knew you were out here alone." Faramir raised an eyebrow, his gaze boring into the hobbit.   
  
"I just wanted to get out and go for a walk to the market . . . and why not? I'm not an invalid as they think . . . just . . ."  
  
"Expecting the king's heir in a few months." The grey eyes dropped to Frodo's midsection, and a small pang of longing—which passed so quickly Frodo was not even sure he'd seen it—crossed Faramir's face. "They are concerned about your health---as I would be. And am."   
  
"Nevertheless, I do sometimes get tired of constantly being told where to go and what to do, and what position to sleep in, and how often I should put my feet up, and what I should eat . . . they're merciless! Especially Aragorn."  
  
At this Faramir laughed gaily. "Aragorn is a lucky man, Frodo, and well he knows it." Suddenly his voice grew very soft and he leaned down, not missing Frodo wiping his sweaty brow with the back of a hand. "You look exhausted---come sit with me a moment in the shade."  
  
"I am all right, just a little hot." Frodo patted his belly with a wan smile and followed Faramir over to a low bench under a tree. "The baby is a bit like having an oven inside of me, actually!" He paused, looking up at the man, feeling suddenly like making hobbity small-talk. "I do hope I can make it to Edoras for your betrothal, Faramir. I insist upon going, but I'm sure Aragorn will have other notions."  
  
Making sure Frodo sat down, Faramir pulled a flask out of his coat and unstoppered it, wetting a cloth and then handing the flask to the hobbit. "Plain water---drink as much as you can." Seeing Frodo obey, Faramir smiled, dabbing the damp cloth over Frodo's face. "I do suspect Aragorn will have something to say about that, and I must agree that your attempting such a trip is not wise. Now, feeling any better? Allow me to see you back home. To Mithrandir's house?"  
  
"Yes, thank you. But really, I'm feeling---" Suddenly his stomach lurched with nausea, and with a groan of despair Frodo realized the spun sugar he'd consumed was about to spin right out onto the open air. "I'm sorry, I---" Leaning over, he vomited onto the ground, dimly aware of Faramir behind him, holding Frodo's brow and chest with strong arms as Frodo convulsed.   
  
When it was over, Frodo felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment, but Faramir's grip on him did not loosen. Instead, the man wiped Frodo's mouth with the damp cloth and rubbed his belly in light circles until the hobbit felt oriented enough to sit up a bit in his arms.   
  
"I'm so ashamed," Frodo ranted, gulping. "Please forgive me, I was craving all these sweet foods at the market and over-indulged . . . I should have known better . . . "   
  
"I suspect you are overheated, and that is what is making you ill," Faramir said, pressing the water flask to Frodo's lips again. "You are more susceptible to the afternoon sun, being small and with child. Drink up, and then I am going to carry you home, and no arguments."   
  
Frodo nodded, sipping, and realized he'd never make it home on his own without seriously risking his health and the baby's. After a minute or two, Faramir made sure Frodo's tunic was loosened enough and easily hefted Frodo into his arms, carrying him comfortably against his chest but ever mindful of the hobbit's swollen belly.   
  
"Seems I'm forever fainting or falling around you, Faramir . . . I do apologize," Frodo whispered, his eyelids growing heavy. He sighed as the man put the damp cloth on his chest---it felt so cool and heavenly.  
  
"Sssssh. Go to sleep, now. You will be back in you own bed in short order." Frodo wasn't sure if he imagined it, but he thought Faramir kissed his brow just before he drifted off.  
  
***  
  
"And Frodo, if you ever find yourself wishing to indulge in market treats, all you have to do is ask and they shall be brought," Aragorn said, his face concerned but his eyes twinkling at the hobbit as he leaned down to kiss the corner of Frodo's mouth. "Having them every once in a while certainly cannot harm you or the child---in fact, for a hobbit, they may even be curative."  
  
Frodo smiled up at him, blinking drowsily. He had woken up to find himself back in his soft bed, naked, cool sheets atop and below him and Aragorn and Faramir and Sam hovering over and bathing his face and neck. He'd been feverish, they said, and of course Aragorn had then insisted on taking his temperature with that horrible glass thing that had to be inserted into his bottom, which Frodo didn't much like. Especially when he felt so weak that turning over onto his side required several pairs of hands.   
  
But Aragorn had pronounced his temperature to be at safe levels, and now the baby kicked vigorously inside him, letting Frodo know it was also unharmed by his excursion.   
  
"I just wanted to get out for a bit," Frodo said now, yawning and stretching his aching back. "I shan't do it again."  
  
"You are not a prisoner in this house, Frodo, but please, do not go by yourself and do not walk so far," Aragorn said, raising Frodo's head and making him drink something that tasted quite heavenly, rather like ripe red cherries. "Thank the Valar that Faramir found you when he did."  
  
"Indeed," Faramir said, grinning. "Or I suspect Frodo might have gone back and lost more coin to the Lady Helgotha and Olithir the Great."   
  
"Who're they?" Sam asked, puzzled.   
  
Frodo turned to Faramir between sips of drink, giving the man a mock frown. "How did you know I did that?"  
  
"Because no one can resist the fortune-tellers of Minas Tirith, and they especially like to prey on unsuspecting halflings hoping to learn the gender of the child they're carrying. Well, what was it? A male or female child for our king?"  
  
"One said boy, the other girl." Frodo tried not to laugh, as it caused his head to ache. "I suppose they don't know what they're talking about, but it was an interesting experience either way." He looked over at Faramir. "Thank you for what you did for me . . . I would not have made it home on my own."  
  
"It was my pleasure, dear Frodo," said Faramir, leaning over and clasping the hobbit's hand before rising. "And now, I must go back to my regular duties . . . take good care of him and the child, Aragorn."   
  
"That I certainly shall. He is going to eat a bit and then be put back to sleep, and he'll remain in bed for the next few days at the very least."  
  
Faramir nodded, his eyes soft as he looked at Frodo. Then the look was quickly gone, to be replaced by his usual stalwart countenance. And with a gentle rub to the mound of Frodo's stomach under the sheets, Faramir was gone as well.  
  
The End 


	3. This Side Up

Well, when I was assembling my new chair, Shirebound said I ought to write a story in which Bilbo or someone else had difficulties putting something together. And then Baranduin said she thought that would be amusing, but would like to see Aragorn try it.   
  
So, here it is as part of my MPREG series---I suppose it's the result of my own utter INABILITY to properly execute any sort of do-it-yourself project.   
  
I own nothing it all. It all belongs to the Tolkien Estate and assorted other rich people, not poor old me.  
  
****  
  
Aragorn drove his fingernails into the palms of his hands and gritted his teeth as guards slowly moved a very large, rugged-looking wooden crate into the vacant chambers a few rooms down from his own. Beside Aragorn, Faramir stood watching, wonder evident on his face as to what this package contained that had caused the king to cancel an important meeting with his advisors when he learned of its arrival.   
  
"Careful, careful . . . it is extremely fragile," Aragorn said, the tone of his voice more pleading than Faramir had ever heard it.   
  
"Yes, my lord," one of the guards answered as all four of them gently sat the huge thing on the floor and backed away, watching Aragorn breathe a sigh of relief. "Will you be needing help with this, my lord?"   
  
"Thank you, Grellen, but if you will but bring me a hammer I believe I will see to the rest of it myself."   
  
"Whatever is it, Aragorn?" Faramir asked as he bent down to inspect the crate for writing and found none to indicate its contents.   
  
"It is a swing."   
  
"A . . . what? For you?"  
  
Aragorn laughed as he swiped a large dagger from within the folds of his clothing and cut the ropes holding the crate together. "No, indeed. A babe's swing, Faramir, with a seat in which to place the child and rock him or her. I ordered it from Dale two months ago, along with several smaller items. It's a surprise, of course, so Frodo must not see it until it is assembled and ready for showing."  
  
"Ah, I see." Faramir nodded in understanding. "I thought it likely to be something for Frodo and the impending child. Tell me, has he consented to come live here with you as of yet?"  
  
Aragorn's scowl was apparent. "He says he is still considering it. Apparently he still mistakenly believes I am fated to marry Arwen and is attempting to remain unobtrusive. However, I plan to make him see the error of his thoughts, and hopefully soon now that the baby's birth is practically imminent. Now, here we go . . ."  
  
Gently, Aragorn lifted the crate's lid while Faramir removed its sides, revealing an intricately packed assortment of highly polished pieces of wood of every conceivable shape and size. Wasting no time, the king began to gently remove the pieces from their cloth and straw padding while Faramir hefted what looked to be a supporting pole and admired its perfect finish.   
  
"It will be a lovely thing, Aragorn," he said, rubbing his hands over the soft wood. "And you are planning to . . . er, assemble it yourself?"  
  
"Why not? It is a child's swing---how difficult can it be? I have the instructions written out here upon this scroll . . . no, make that two scrolls . . . no," Aragorn said, digging around a bit more in the crate, "it seems there are . .. four scrolls. Four . . . scrolls of instructions." There was a brief note of hesitancy in his voice before it once again resumed its usual confident manner.   
  
"The instructions say to lay everything out so that I can determine which part goes where," he added, speaking softly almost to himself, "and then begin assembly by matching each shape to the numbered pieces in the instructions. I must have a hammer, which Grellen just brought, and the bolts and pegs are included here." The king hefted a large canvas bag filled to the brim and grimaced. "There is no lack of bolts and pegs in here. I believe this is heavier than Anduril."  
  
Trying not to smile, Faramir set to work unloading the rest of the swing from the crate as Aragorn gazed about the pile of parts now strewn about the room and tried to find Piece One as the instructions demanded. There were so many parts . . . large polished brackets and smaller poles and flat painted pieces and scalloped-edged strips and a cloth something-or-other and little ornate things that looked like carved animals that fastened somewhere on the apparatus . . .   
  
"Aha! Piece Number One, right here," Aragorn declared proudly, rising and making a grab for the largest piece on the floor. "And I am supposed to then find Piece Two and Piece Three and hammer them into the holes here on the end of Piece One. Faramir, do you happen to see Pieces Two and Three? They are long, square pieces with flat bottoms."  
  
"Hmmmm." Rubbing his chin, the steward stepped gingerly over the pile and finally found what he assumed must be the requested parts. "These?"  
  
"They look the same." Aragorn took one of the pieces and lined it up with the hole on the underside of Piece One. "This should be fairly easy . . . all I must do is . . . get this . . . piece . . . in here . . . why won't it go?"  
  
He used all his strength to bind the pieces together, to no avail. Frustrated, Aragorn finally grabbed the hammer and carefully tapped the very bottom end of Piece Two. Nothing happened. Picking the first scroll of instructions up, the king again scanned it. "Ah, I see now where I went wrong. Piece Two and Piece Three are not interchangeable . . . perhaps if I switch them out."   
  
"And there are two other pieces identical to those that must go in the other side?" Faramir asked, retrieving the most likely suspects from the assortment on the floor and holding them up. "I believe you will need these next. Gently, now, gently," he added, sucking his breath in at the way Aragorn fiercely clutched the hammer.   
  
Aragorn looked up, his eyebrows drawn together in a definite frown. "Two more? Why are there two more of those pieces? I have had the most difficult time getting just this first one in!"  
  
"Well, you have only put one side together, Aragorn. The swing must have something on the other side to hold it up." Faramir found he had a difficult time keeping the amusement out of his voice, especially when the king groaned.   
  
"Very well. Hand me Pieces Four and Five, then, please." With some alacrity and determination Aragorn managed finally to finish the other side of the swing's support. Together, he and Faramir stood the partially assembled frame up and studied it. Unfortunately, it was Faramir who noticed a slight imbalance to the structure.   
  
"It is lopsided," he said, biting his lower lip and risking a glance at his companion.   
  
"Are you certain? It looks perfectly fine to me."  
  
"Aye, it certainly does lean. At that angle the babe would likely just slide out onto the floor and then Frodo would truly never speak to either of us again."   
  
Sighing, Aragorn began the task of removing all four pieces and discovered, upon studying his instructions more closely, that he had mixed up Piece Two and Piece Four. After changing these out and inserting metal bolts through the structure---as well as reinserting Piece Three and Piece Five where they had been in the first place---the polished wood frame finally looked sturdy and balanced.   
  
"We have conquered that part," Aragorn said, fingering the scrolls again. "Now, there are a few more supports to add, as well as a cloth seat that holds the child and a wooden cradle in which it may be rocked to sleep. And some sort of intricate mechanism that keeps the entire thing swaying with only a small turn of a handle." He sighed, wiping his brow. "It looks only to get more complicated, Faramir, and we have been at this for well over an hour."  
  
The steward grinned. "I do not have anywhere I have to be tonight. And you?"  
  
"I had hoped to bring Frodo here this evening to surprise him with this and have supper waiting. If he will not live here, he will usually at least consent to a meal. You've no idea what a pregnant hobbit can eat, Faramir. It is unimaginable."  
  
"I have seen him have a go or two at his plate at feasts, you forget," Faramir reminded with a chuckle. "And well, there is a good chance we can have this finished, I think, in time for a late meal for you two."  
  
"Very late," Aragorn agreed. "Frodo will be nodding off before I can surprise him. Although there is always tomorrow, I suppose. I don't expect the baby to arrive this week, so perhaps I have some time. Though I must surely get out sometime tonight and visit Frodo at the house."  
  
Faramir smiled at the man's devotion. It was well-known to practically everyone how much the king doted on the hobbit. *As well he should,* Faramir thought to himself; a vision of Frodo's wistful face as he gazed at Aragorn with love coming to mind. Shaking himself from his reverie, Faramir sat down crosslegged on the floor and began to sort out the remaining parts of the swing.   
  
An hour later, the cloth seat and the wooden cradle were attached to the frame, much to the men's relief, though Aragorn kept leaning down to check them both, tugging on the lavishly embroidered fabric seat as if it were an Orc about to retreat back into its underground cave. Seeing Faramir watching him, the king's face turned red. "Well, I must make sure it is sturdy . . . after all, my child is going to be resting there."  
  
Faramir merely laughed. "I think your testing proves it will likely support a Warg, Aragorn. As this is but to be a half-hobbit baby, I've no doubts it will prove strong enough. Now, I have the parts of the swing mechanism laid out. We've but to figure out exactly how this handle fits into this . . ."  
  
"I do not think that's the way it goes," Aragorn said, observing and running a hand down the smooth frame to another opening in the polished wood. "Perhaps the handle fits into this space instead?"  
  
"It will not. I've tried that already to no avail. It has to go here or nowhere at all."   
  
"Well, perhaps . . ."   
  
After much bending down and inspecting and studying and trial and error and more than a few mild murmured oaths, at last they managed to wrangle the crank handle into place. Which left the delicate inner rods and structures which, by some fine work of craftsmanship neither man could determine, caused the swing to keep swinging of its own accord long after being wound up.   
  
"Erm, Aragorn, I do hate to say it, but I believe we were supposed to install the inner rod I have here and some sort of pulley before inserting that crank handle."  
  
"You are surely joking, Faramir. Please tell me you are joking." Aragorn's voice had now lowered into a note of despair and frustration the steward had rarely heard. "I don't think I can do this anymore. I am about ready to give up on it."  
  
"Are you not the one who had said, many times, 'there is always hope?,' my king?"  
  
Crossing his arms, Aragorn put on his sternest face. "Not this time I fear, my friend. Nevertheless, I suppose we have no other choice but to remove the handle and start again with this particular part."  
  
Another hour later, the delicate inner workings of the swing were finally installed and the handle reinserted. The king's face, in fact, lit up in delight as he wound the crank and found the swing rocked for some time to a soft, tinkling lullaby.   
  
"It works, Faramir. By all the goodness in Middle-earth, look at it! It works!" Aragorn positively beamed with joy---until he picked up the instructions and looked at the next tasks laid out for them. "We must now put on the adornments---the wooden animals and scrollwork to dress it up."  
  
"That should be a simple matter," Faramir said, clapping Aragorn on the back.   
  
A half-hour later, the men weren't so certain.   
  
"Thank goodness the men of Dale sent us extra wooden pegs." Aragorn scowled at two he'd cracked accidentally upon attempting to fasten a carved bear to one end of the frame. "But at least the bears and the oliphaunts are on now. How are you coming with the rest, Faramir?"  
  
"The flying birds are being stubborn, but luckily the foxes seem to be cooperating. Ah . . . there we go. I believe that is it except for the scrollwork."  
  
Standing back to view the entire thing, Aragorn bit his lip and considered. "Perhaps it does not need the scrollwork. Mayhap it is simpler and cleaner-looking and more functional without."  
  
"Aragorn. I do not claim to know much about babies, but I do know that the frillier and fussier their items are, the better the parents seem to like it. You know that Frodo will be disappointed if he finds out the scrollwork was left off."  
  
The very notion of a disappointed Frodo easily convinced the king, and applying the intricately scalloped wood detail went relatively smoothly, for the most part. When it was finished, both Aragorn and Faramir stood back to admire their handiwork.   
  
"I do hope Frodo will like it." Aragorn stood staring at the swing with wonder as he cradled his bruised hand. He had applied the scrollwork with a bit too much alacrity and had ended up driving the hammer right onto his thumb. The resultant shout had caused one of the guards to come running into the room before being promptly sent off to retrieve a cold cloth for the king to wrap his hand in.   
  
"He will adore it. It is a beautiful and perfectly crafted thing, Aragorn, and fitting for a girl or boy child. How could he not love it?"  
  
"I think you are right. It does seem to say 'Frodo' to me."  
  
A moment more passed before Aragorn spoke again, hands now balled into fists on his hips. "I would truly rather fight the battle of Helm's Deep all over again than ever have to take this apart and put it back together."  
  
"And I would rather challenge an army of Southrons with charging oliphaunts." Silence. Then, "Aragorn, this will fit through that doorway yonder, will it not?"   
  
Both men turned to look at the door, mentally studying its measurements, then turned back to each other with alarm.   
  
"Oh, no," Aragorn said hurriedly. "The door will be widened if need be. This is a spare chamber---I care not. I am certainly not taking this thing apart again."  
  
"But the doorway is stone," Faramir reasoned. "How will you ever break it apart?"  
  
Thinking long and hard while staring at the floor, Aragorn finally looked up, a gleam in his eye. "Yes, that's it . . . that's it. Of course . . . a dwarf will know how to do it."   
  
The next moment Faramir found himself standing alone, hearing the echo of his king's voice as Aragorn commanded the guards to fetch his friend Gimli with haste.   
  
The End  
  
??? 


End file.
